


The fear keeps me moving still my heart beats so slow

by Someonewhosfunny



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Isolation, Press and Tabloids, Pressure, Self-Discovery, loss of self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someonewhosfunny/pseuds/Someonewhosfunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who could understand, in ignorant ease, what we others suffer as the paths of exile stretch endlessly on.” The Seafarer<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The fear keeps me moving still my heart beats so slow

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr in December.  
> A lot of self searching and internalized angst. A bit abstract with no parings.  
> Title is from the song "My Body is a Cage" by Arcade Fire. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this work. I don't own Arcade Fire. None of the tattoos I allude to are my own. 
> 
> Feedback is always greatly appriciate! :) If you're actually reading a story of mine, I already love you.

Harry walks down the crowded street, completely disoriented and overwhelmed. The unyielding bodies of his security team tower over him, seeming as tall as the sky scrapers that dominated the iconic city. Harry feels like a rag doll. The burly men are pressed against him on every side, pushing him along. Their rough hands grip him in a way that can generously be described as protective. Noises buzz in the boy’s ear like static on a radio. The shouts of paparazzi jumble with the warnings of his security team, while the ever present sound of screaming girls adds another layer of commotion.

The stunning flashes of cameras make the eighteen year old dizzy, his vivid green eyes unfocused as they scanned the dirty pavement. Harry feels like he’s spinning out of control and there’s nothing to grab hold of.

His pigeon-toed feet stumble as strong hands push him into the black suburban waiting on the curb. The heavy metal door slams behind him. Even within the enclosed vehicle, the mayhem outside is unavoidable. The camera flashes become impossibly worse, light ricocheting off the window in splinters. Silhouettes press to the car, blocking all the windows. The column of his gifted throat seems to tighten as the act of breathing becomes laboring. Harry feels trapped, utterly suffocated by his fame.

As the car pulls away from the scene, it becomes easier to force air to cycle through his burning lungs. Harry feels as if he’s stripping away the layers he’s accumulated. The farther he get from the busy city, the more he begins to transform from  “Harry Styles the International pop star” to just Harry, the kid from Cheshire, England, a world 5370 kilometers away from the craziness of New York City.

Eye lids flutter shut as traffic zooms by on the throughway, streaks of red and white across the darkening canopy of the sky.

Harry has never felt more homesick. With his eyes shut, it almost feels like he’s among the rolling green grass and cobblestone walks of his picturesque home town. A few serene breaths are drawn, before the honk of city traffic tears him from his home.

With every mile driven, another label dissolves off of the boy. _Womanizer. Play boy. Flirt. Home wrecker. Heartbreaker._ Each misconception melts away to reveal a real person underneath. The unavoidable hatred that reels in the boy’s head daily begins to grow silent. The hate about his voice, his hair, his body, his tattoos, his choice in friends, his choice in partner – it all drops from screams to whispers. From whispers to silence.

When the car finally reaches the hotel, the dulled sound of excited fans begin to ring in the boys’ head. They line the sidewalk eagerly, waiting to catch of glimpse of the pop star.

Like getting dressed for a performance, Harry begins to reapply the layers. Charming attitude. Twinkling eyes. Heart melting smile. The façade is applied. “ _Smile more, Cry less_ ,” just like his arm reminds.

Each inking of his expansive skin reminds him to never forget himself, even in times like this. When his sense of self is threatened – torn, tainted, and ripped from him – his little reminders stay concrete. He is a person, a human being, not a machine, not part of a whole, not a product to be marketed, or a puppet to be manipulated. Harry Styles is a person, not that anyone seems to remember that anymore.

The metal door is thrown open, causing deafening noise to inundate his senses. Again, the bright flashes impair his vision, making him feel intoxicated. Harry doesn’t feel like he’s in control of anything anymore, too disoriented to take the reins. The boy was sucked into a whirlwind life – and he’s struggling to keep up.

The pop star inhales deeply, preparing himself for another arduous walk. It’s only about 50 feet until safety. He can make it. Too soon, he’s thrust into the ravenous crowd.  

Two feet hit the pavement and a long arm is slowly lifted, waving to the legions of admiring fans and making the noise level erupt. The pop star stops to pose for pictures and sign autographs, trying his best to please as many people as possible. He loves the fans more than anything; he really does. He’s immensely grateful because without them, he wouldn’t be able to experience any of the things he is able to. It’s just so difficult sometimes. The overwhelming pressure is so heavy sometimes that Harry feels like it’s going to crush him until he turns to dust. He’s afraid that he’s going to give and give every piece of himself until he has nothing left, until he’s a deserted cage, the lonely bones of the vibrant boy he once was.

In a blur, he’s through the hotel door and on his way up the glass elevator. Three members of his staff are with him, but he feels as if he’s alone in the middle of the ocean. Harry reaches his room easily, mind far away. The door opens with a click and he enters the empty room. Lights still out, he closes himself in. The moonlight through the large balcony window is all that illuminates the room. The boy kicks off his suede shoes, abandoning them in the middle of the carpet. His shoulders wiggle out of his double breasted jacket. The back fabric collapses to the floor in a heap that resembled Harry’s mood. He’s just so tired.

The next item to come off is his bow tie. Nimble fingers loosen the small slip of silk and he lets it hang down onto his prominently sculpted collarbones. Big feet pad quietly across the carpet to the bathroom.

Long fingers flip the switch. Responsively, artificial yellow light snaps on, blinding the sensitive eyes of the young star. Green pierces the glass, taking in everything. Buttons are undone swiftly as dead eyes follow every move made. No-longer-crisp white fabric is shrugged out of and balled up into the sink. Harry looks at the ink that covers his skin. 

Two black sparrows cling to his chest. A sailor’s symbol. No matter how far he goes, he will always travel back to where he belongs: home. It grounds him. He isn’t just a wander; he has somewhere to go back to.

To the left, “17BLACK” is dark against the swell of his collarbone. It’s a gambling symbol, much like his career. There is doubt; nothing is assured. At any moment, all of this could be gone. Seventeen black means good luck.  

The eighteen year old lifts his arm, a spattering of black ink hidden on the underside of his arm and down his side. A black cage paired with two smaller masks jumps out at him. The masks symbolize this game, this act. There are two sides to Harry Styles. There is the one that everyone see, the cheeky, smiley boy living life to the fullest. The one who has everything he could possibly want. Next, there is the one no one gets a glimpse at. The boy who isn’t sure how much more of this he can take before breaking. The one who has nothing and no one that matters. That boy staring back at him through the glass.

The cage is so tangible that Harry is sure he can actually _see_ it around him. It constrains and suffocates him, placing him in a nice little area that he can’t escape. He’s only there so that they can find him when they need him. _Sing here. Take photos here. Go to dinner with her. Make friends with him._ Harry feels like a circus animal: used for entertainment, then stuffed back into the darkness, where no one cares about him at all. He’s like a puppet. They pull the stings.

“I can’t change” is printed on his wrist, screaming like a mantra. Harry can’t change. He can’t be pushed and pulled and prodded and perfected to fit everyone’s needs. He can’t be the boy everyone needs him to be. If he can’t be who he is, then what’s the point in being anyone? Maybe he’s beginning to lose himself, but he knows he can’t let them change him. Why should Harry Styles be plastered across billboards around the world when Harry Styles doesn’t even _exist_ anymore? He doesn’t even _know_ who Harry Styles is right now. The only person he knows is this fragile boy, thrust into a world he can’t handle.

He leaves the bathroom quickly, kicking off his dress pants before burrowing into the layers of blankets. They will protect him. They will wrap him in their warmness and reassurance. As salty drops begin to roll down porcelain cheeks, Harry feels just like that. Porcelain, glass, china. One faulty step away from shattering into a splintered mess that he will never be able to reconstruct.

But under the blanket, he feels safe.


End file.
